


Democratic Candidate for President Duan

by drea_rev



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Threats of Violence, tw: gun violence, tw: mentions of guns
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 23:55:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 800
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8554657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drea_rev/pseuds/drea_rev
Summary: AU where Lardo runs for president, with her vice presidential candidate, Eric Bittle. TW for mentions of death, guns, violence. But nothing graphic. Yes I made this to cope. ILU all be safe





	

Focused laser-like on the notes before her on the podium, Larissa didn’t hear anything but garbled shouting, shuffling, and a sudden and impractical-sounding thud, and then a baffled instant of silence before the screams. She only looked up, halfway through the word _reparations_ , when two bodyguards strafed to block her view of a Western Mass townhall crowd, who had apparently formed a flesh pile in the front right corner.

To the presidential candidate, it looked like an ice hockey pile-on after a goal, except on knotted pine floor, not ice. What it sounded like was a mash of camera shutters, yelling, and behind her, Vice President-candidate Eric R. Bittle, becoming shrill:

“Miss Duan!”

Larissa turned, blinking, still not registering what had happened, as Eric ran in front of her and wrapped her in blue Armani arms. “Eric,” she whispered into his lapel, “What on earth--”

“I didn’t see what kind he had,” Eric said, even more shrilly, “I--”

There was a shuffle as Eric turned to yell at the bodyguards—his anger, infrequent as it had been on the campaign trail, was startling when it happened-- “What the hell were you doing?! SHE COULD HAVE DIED!”

That was when Larissa “Lardo” Duan, Democratic Presidential candidate, realized what was under the hockey pile. A man with a gun, a gun that even her Georgia senator of a running mate hadn’t recognized.

 

 

Somehow, through the throng of microphones, flashing cameras, cell phone cameras, and bodyguards trying to tell her what to do, the presidential candidate did make it down from the low stage and toward the now-thronging pile of security officials, a pair of confused Holyoke police officers, an FBI lady, Larissa’s traveling security detail and aides, and the press, and seeing it up close somehow made it worse.

The would-be assassin in question looked about fifteen, but he would be identified as twenty-three in the next day’s explosive media coverage. Divested of his obscenely large rapid-fire artillery and sitting on the floor bruised in plastic handcuffs with guns at his head, he didn’t look at anyone.

The hair on Larissa’s neck was on end.

Another young man was standing near, but not on the floor, not in plastic handcuffs, and also apparently not allowed to leave. He turned to her with no expression. A mountain among exploding volcanoes in the creepy backasswards Scientology creation myth.

“Are you all right, Ms Duan?” Mr. Non-Volcano said.

His voice melted through it all. Larissa blinked. Eric, still at her shoulder, was glancing back and forth, making sure any other bullets weren’t penetrating the wall of security people. If circumstances were better, she’d had elbowed him, said ‘Get a load of this one’. It had been a secret joy of theirs since he’d joined her campaign, picking out the best-looking men they’d encountered on the trip. It helped make light of the somber mood of this election season.

“To whom do I owe this pleasure?” Larissa murmured back, holding out her hand.

“Jack Zimmermann,” Mr. Non-Volcano said, taking it firmly in both of his. “Managing Editor of the _Conservative View_.”

A member of the opponent’s press. Larissa smiled, surprised at how polite he was being.

Eric said, “Thank you for saving her.”

Larissa blinked and turned to her Vice Presidential candidate. He was looking right at Jack. She looked back at him, too.

“Eric, what—what do you mean?”

“Oh? While the people paid to look after you on this campaign were lolly gagging, this gentleman leapt on top of our wannabe massacre artist. He was sitting a seat in front of him. Nice sack, by the way. My—my father is a coach for the high school football team,” Eric’s nerves were getting the better of him as he rambled. “I recognize moves I wouldn’t be able to accomplish. Never made quarterback, linebacker, cornerback—none.”

“It was a check.” Jack’s face made what on any other face might have been a smirk. “You know. Like in ice hockey.”

“Get with the program, Eric, don’t you know a check when you see one?” Larissa said in a stage whisper. Anything to prevent slipping back into that dark, dark shock.

“And I wouldn’t be too worried about not making quarterback, linebacker, cornerback, et al. You did make _senator,_ Mr Bittle. I’m sure your father’s proud.”

Eric’s cheeks were going red under his freckles, so it was probably just as well that the candidates were finally shepherded out of the room, the security and police detail finally determining that it was a lone aggressor situation and not a planned attack by a militia group. Larissa wasn't so sure, and neither, as she’d hear from many domestic and international relatives on the phone that night, both in English and Vietnamese, was just about anyone else.

 

To be continued...


End file.
